


No Place Like Home

by SeeEmRunning



Series: Run-ins [4]
Category: Criminal Minds, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's junior year of college, things are fantastic. His telekinesis is under control, he's a full-time college student, and he's found a balance between school, work, and hunting that would never have been possible under John's roof.</p><p>But as everyone knows, Winchesters don't get happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> If you cry easily, you're going to want tissues for the end of this one.

Sam Winchester, twenty-one years old with enough in his past to send anyone else over the edge into madness, laughed and batted away the towel his girlfriend had thrown at his head.

"Come on, Jess, it was funny," Sam wheedled.

"It was _mean,_ " Jess argued, but her lips kept twitching.

Sam grinned. "I told you about the moving traditions."

"I thought you were joking!" She pushed a strand of her long, wavy blonde hair behind her ear. "Who puts a can of pop-out worms in the boxes?"

"The Winchesters," Sam said, puffing his chest out in a parody of himself and ignoring the way it made the scars pull.

Jess threw a pillow at him. "Let's just get this mess dealt with, okay?"

Hours later, they'd unpacked everything into their small apartment. Sam had been in earlier, putting in a false drawer bottom to hide the weapons he still maintained and used for the occasional hunt, but Jess didn't know that. As far as she was concerned, he was normal. Safe.

And if he'd hidden pale-green protective symbols beneath the salt-laced white of the base coat and blue of the actual paint the landlord let them use, she didn't need to know.

It was the end of August, the week before classes began again, and when they sat in front of the TV hours later, he filled his mind with thoughts of Stanford and Jess, refusing to dwell on the family that had disowned him when they found out what he was, even Dean turning his back. 

August melted into September. Sam and Jess lived together, spent every moment they weren't in class or working together, but they still made sure to schedule a date night every Friday. Saturday night was for hanging out with Becky, Brady, Luis, and Zach. It was the taste of normal Sam had been reaching for his entire life, and it was better than he'd ever dreamed. Monday to Friday, college student; Saturday, average Joe; Sunday, hunter while Jess was in church and then back to the apartment to shower with the excuse that he'd been running. It was a good balance of his upbringing and his dreams, and Sam's psychic abilities kept him from getting hurt badly enough to trip Jess's pre-med alarm bells. Other than switching out a dorm room in favor of an off-campus apartment, it was the same routine he'd lived for two years.

 _Routine gets you killed,_ whispered in his ear and he shook his head to rid himself of it. That was all in his past. John Winchester's fucked-up life no longer held any sway over his son's decisions. Why shouldn't he have the comfort of a routine?

Two weeks after they moved in together, they spent a day goofing off with their friends - some sort of carnival that involved water balloons and glitter and chalk bombs but thankfully no clowns. By the time they stumbled through their door and into a shower, they were exhausted, and when Sam's foot dragged across the threshold all he could remember was years spent obsessively checking salt lines.

"I love you," Sam murmured when they were in bed.

"I love you too," she said sleepily, snuggling into his side and using his bicep as a pillow. She fell asleep almost instantly, but Sam was suddenly awake and worrying. Had he remembered all the protective sigils? Had he drawn them right? Could he get to a weapon fast enough if something got through? He pulled her closer, breathed her in, and repeated, _She's safe. She's going to be fine. Nothing's going to happen to her,_ like a mantra.

"Sam," she said, "why is everything flying?"

He sucked in a breath and looked around. Everything - the bed, the nightstands, the clothes hamper - was, indeed, hovering about four feet off the ground.

"You're dreaming," he lied, hoping like hell that would be enough for her.

She sat up. "No, I'm not. Why is everything flying?"

Sam swallowed. "Promise you won't freak out?"

"Are you playing a joke?" Jess's voice was deadly calm, and he'd never heard her quite so angry.

"No." Sam took a deep breath and let it out, and everything settled back to the floor. "Jess, things aren't as...simple, I guess, as most people think."

"Define 'simple'."

 _Nothing for it,_ he decided, and sat up to face her. "Um, well, I'm kinda psychic?" he said hopefully.

"Sam, it's too late for this. Just tell me how you set it up without me realizing it."

"Jess." He ran his hand through his hair. "Jess, I didn't set anything up. It's just me. Look, I'll prove it - what do you want me to pick up? I'll do it. Anything you want," he promised recklessly.

She snorted. "Fine. Get toothpaste from the bathroom - then I'll be impressed."

He knew exactly where it was - right side of the sink, where they always left it - and imagined it lifting up and floating out to them. A nudge of his mind opened the door, which had been closed, and the little blue tube zoomed their way only to stop a foot from them.

Jess's mouth dropped open. "But - how -"

"There are no wires or strings or magnets or whatever," Sam said. "It's just me, Jess. I'm just a freak."

She shoved him right on one of his scars and his concentration broke; the toothpaste fell to the floor. "You're not a fucking freak," she told him sternly.

Sam smiled sadly. "I move things with my mind and I see people die before it happens. Jess, I'm the _definition_ of freak."

Jess pointed at the toothpaste. "If you can move things," she said, almost like a challenge, "make the toothpaste do a loop."

"Oh, that's easy," Sam said. A twitch of his mind and it rose into the air, doing a loop - and then racing around the room like an overexcited puppy, joined by her hairbrush and his deodorant.

She stared at it, then at him. "Do I know you at all?"

Sam winced. "Yeah. You do. I haven't changed, it's just that - well, now I don't have to keep a secret anymore."

"Why were you keeping it a secret anyway?" she snapped.

"Because I was worried you'd run," he snapped back. "My goddamn family sure as hell did."

"Seems to me you're the one who ran from them."

"My brother put a goddamn gun to my head and said if I ever came back he'd kill me for my own good." Sam shook his head. "Why couldn't you have just believed it was a dream."

"Because I'm pre-med. But I don't - this is a lot."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. I know. There's more. I can tell you now, or I can wait until tomorrow."

"Tell me now."

He swallowed, and then he told her about growing up in the backseat of a Chevrolet with the changing scenery of America as his mobile and television. He told her about shooting and self-defense. He told her about digging up corpses and stuffing protection bags into corners of houses. He admitted to salting and protecting the apartment so they'd be safe and he could sleep. He told her about the weapons he still had and the hunts he'd been on.

By eight in the morning, his voice was hoarse and he'd talked himself out. Jess had listened to the whole thing, crazy as it was, but Sam didn't see anything like censure on her face.

When at last he fell silent, she cupped his cheek in her hand and said slowly, "I always thought there had to be some truth to the myths."

Hope blossomed in Sam's chest. "You believe me?"

"Yeah. I believe you. I saw a ghost once myself, or I might not."

"What happened? Did it hurt you?"

"Nah. It was an old lady at the 4-H Center I went to for horses. That whole place is haunted by five or six ghosts. Nobody wanted to be there alone, especially not at night. She looked at me and then just went through the wall. Creepiest thing I've ever seen, but I've been a believer since. I wish you'd told me."

Sam gestured helplessly. "How was I supposed to tell you? 'Hi, my name's Sam and I'm telekinetic and sometimes I see people get ripped to shreds by werewolves'?"

"Maybe not quite that graphic. I understand." She shook her head. "You really grew up hunting ghosts?"

"And poltergeists," he said with a flicker of a smile. "A few demons, but they're rare. Wendigoes. But it was mostly ghosts, they're the most common of anything."

Jess nodded, like that made sense. "And you see…?"

"People getting killed, yeah. Sometimes I get enough detail I can stop it. Usually it's just - a forest, or the inside of a house, or something that's everywhere so there's no way to narrow it down, and they die."

Jess just nodded; the movement drew her gaze to the clock. "Oh, shit, class in two hours."

"Wait, that's it?"

"What's it?"

"You just - you just roll with it like that? Like it's that easy?"

"Sam." She smiled. "I know you. You're the sanest man I know, and you showed me you can move things with your mind, and I believed in ghosts anyway. Yeah, it's that easy."

Sam lurched across the distance between them and caught her in a bone-crushing hug. "Jessica Lee Moore, what did I ever do to deserve you?" he whispered into her scalp.

She hugged him back.

With October came midterms. Late nights studying turned into late-night makeout sessions. Sam stopped actively suppressing his telekinesis at home and started using it to make life easier for them, cleaning the apartment and doing laundry with a thought. Classes became test prep. Work stayed work.

Brady punched his arm when they left their English class the session after they took the test. "So. How'd you do?"

"Ninety-six. You?"

"Eighty-eight. But hey, ninety-six - think the lovely Jessica's going to give you anything for that?"

"Shut up, man," Sam said with a laugh, pushing him.

"Oh, is Sammykins really that heels over head for her?"

Sam blinked. "Heels over head?"

"Heels over head, head over heels, whatever."

Sam rolled his eyes at him. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but that's why you like me. You're too damn serious, you need to lighten up."

"I'm light," Sam said indignantly.

Brady snorted. "Let's go with that."

"Whatever, dude. I'm meeting Jess for lunch."

"Have fun, loverboy."

"You too, forever alone." They split, Sam to meet Jess and Brady for his next class.

And then they were through the other side ("Eighty-six, seventy-nine, and ninety-eight!" Jess had yelled, laughing herself silly at the thought of passing her three hardest midterms so spectacularly, and Sam told her she never looked more beautiful than when she was celebrating), and October was drawing to a close.

He never hunted on Halloween. He did, however, hate it; it was two days before the anniversary of his mother's death, and Dad was usually passed out from alcohol around this time of year. Dean started following in John's footsteps when he was fifteen, leaving eleven-year-old Sam to desperately try to care for two much bigger men on his own for almost a week. They'd never celebrated Halloween, and Sam had almost thought parties were something Hollywood had made up.

But no. Jess always found some ridiculous costume to dress up in, and she always tried to find something he would wear other than his usual jeans and dress shirt, and she always failed.

But on October 28, things changed.

It started off innocuous enough, in a morbid way: twenty-two-year-old Stanford student Robin Litkiss was shot through the head with a sniper rifle, scattering brain matter and blonde hair all along the walkway where she'd been waiting for class to begin.

On October 29, twenty-one-year-old student Lorraine Zilkide, as blonde as Robin was, was killed the same way.

The campus breathed a collective sigh of relief when October 30 passed without incident. Sam figured Robin and Lorraine had been targeted for some reason, and that their blonde hair was a coincidence. He put the problem from his mind and went back to searching for ways to kill the chupacabra living in the Palo Alto sewers.

On October 31, Halloween Monday, twenty-two-year-old Lily White was shot. Jess and Sam stayed in that night, and Jess's costume - a lumberjack, she'd claimed - stayed in the closet. 

"Did you see any of the girls from-" she started

"No," Sam interrupted, knowing where she was going. "I only ever see deaths that aren't human." He kissed the top of her head and wondered how to broach the subject. _Both feet in, I guess._ "Jess, uh, do you - maybe, possibly - want to, uh - dyeyourhair?"

"Dye my hair?" she repeated incredulously. "Why would I do that?"

"You're a blonde young woman going to Stanford," Sam pointed out, now on solid ground. "You don't have to, if you don't want to, but-"

"Damn right I don't have to," Jess said. "But if it makes you feel better, fine. I'll get some when we go shopping Wednesday."

"Thank you," Sam said fervently, kissing her forehead.

"But I want something in return."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She dragged his head down to kiss him deeply.

"I think I can live with that," Sam said, and hauled her over his shoulder. She laughed and swatted at his ass as he carried her into the bedroom, and when they were done, he inhaled the smell of her hair and whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too," she said. "Do you mind getting the light?"

Sam nudged the switch with barely a thought and darkness fell. She pillowed her head on his bicep, as had become her habit, and fell asleep. Sam followed shortly thereafter.

Sam spent most of Tuesday worried out of his mind. He had class starting at eight, and then worked until seven; Jess was in class until ten. They didn't see each other until she got back to the apartment. Anything could happen to her without him there; she could be the next target, she could be hurt, oh God, she could be _dead_ and he wouldn't even _know it_ -

A _ding_ from the desk snagged his attention, and he blinked down at the box he was holding. He was supposed to be restocking romance and instead he'd been panicking. _Stupid,_ he told himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! Distractions get people killed!_

Another _ding_ had him groaning. "I'm coming," he called, setting down the box. "How can I help-" he started when he made his way out of the aisle, then stumbled when he saw who it was. "You?" he finished weakly.

Agent Morgan and Dr. Reid blinked at him. "Sam Winchester?" Morgan said.

"Yep. Good to see you again," he said mildly, forcing calm into himself. "What can I help you with?"

"You're working in a bookstore," Reid said slowly.

Sam shrugged. "It pays the bills and the manager works around my school schedule."

"Where do you go?" Morgan asked.

"Stanford."

"Figures," Morgan snorted. "You know anything about what's been going on down there?"

"If you mean the murders, then no, I don't."

Reid rubbed his forehead, looking like he was biting back a smile. Sam's own lips trembled with an inappropriate desire to laugh. Christ, how many times could he run into the same damn FBI team?

Morgan just shook his head, posture relaxing a bit. "Damn, Winchester, either you've been fooling us for ten years or you've got the worst luck in the world."

Sam half-smiled. "Broke a lot of mirrors as a kid."

"Okay. So. Did you know any of the victims?"

"No."

"Do you have alibis for the times of the shootings?"

"I was in class, with my girlfriend, or here. Maybe with some other friends."

"Have you seen anything suspicious at all? New people, maybe?" Reid prodded.

"Nah. It's a decent-size college, I can't know everyone. Nobody stands out."

"You haven't seen anything at all?" Morgan pressed. "Nothing? You know the smallest detail can break a case wide open?"

"Yeah, I know. And I want this son of a bitch caught. But I haven't seen anything." Sam shrugged helplessly. "My girlfriend's planning on dyeing her hair tomorrow, since he's going after blondes, but that's all I know."

"And if you knew more, would you tell us?" Reid asked.

"Course I would. I still got Morgan's and Hotchner's cards."

"We've set up a tip line," Morgan told him, scribbling the number on the back of a card in the holder - Suzie Brickle's, if he wasn't mistaken, a local realtor. "Call us there if you learn anything."

"Okay," Sam agreed easily, accepting the card.

Morgan's eyes caught and held his. "If you find anything, Sam, don't play the hero. We'll take the bastard down."

"What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," Morgan said coolly. "Just leave the takedown to us."

"Why wouldn't I? The two times I had to do the takedown was because I was about to be killed by the other guy. This one snipes - he'll never get close enough to me to be an issue."

"Not that you know of," Reid agreed. "But he might be someone you know. He might be a friend of yours."

"And honestly? Given that the last three times we ran into each other you were in the middle of everything, I'd bet you _do_ know him," Morgan said.

Sam sighed. "Whatever, man. Is there anything else you need?"

"Not right now. See you around, kid."

They left and Sam went back to restocking the romance section. When his relief got there and told him about Gina Flint's death, he wasn't surprised.  
***  
The next day, Jess met him outside the building in which his first, last, and only class was held. "Ready to go shopping?"

"Um." He'd completely forgotten about their weekly trip to the store; it was the anniversary of his mother's death, and he'd spent most of his concentration debating over calling his brother for the first time in three years in the hope the anger had faded and being thankful he didn't have to clean up vomit and everything else that came with two violently grieving drunk men. "I forgot my wallet at the apartment, so we'll have to swing by there first, but yeah. Have you picked a color yet?"

"Yep. Think I might go for red," she said thoughtfully.

"Um...how red?" he asked timidly.

"Clown red. And no, you don't get a say."

He swallowed. "Okay," he said slowly. He never had told her about his thing with clowns.

She cackled. "Oh, you should have seen your face!"

"So, not clown red?"

"Of course not. It would look horrible." She fake-shuddered. "Auburn."

Sam relaxed and chuckled. "Scared me for a minute."

"I know." She smirked at him and leaned up to kiss him. A moment later she relaxed into his chest in a hug. "This is getting to me," she admitted.

"It's getting to me too, babe." He stroked a hand through her soon-to-be-dark-red hair and kissed her head. "We'll be okay."

"Yeah, I know, it's just-"

A sharp pain made itself known in first his left hand, then his chest, growing until it swallowed his attention whole. "Jess-" he gasped, sliding down the wall. Confusion battled with pain for the seconds before he slipped into unconsciousness, arms loosening their grip on his girlfriend. The morning sun threw the tableau into sharp relief as screams rose around them.  
***  
"We got another one," one of the local detectives said, poking his head into the conference room. "Two minutes ago. We toned out the paramedics and I'm about to head over there myself."

"Why paramedics?" Reid asked, standing and grabbing his messenger bag.

"Woman was hugging somebody when it happened. Bullet went through her skull and into his chest. He might still be alive."

"We're coming," Hotch said. "He changed his MO."

"Evolution or devolution?" Blake asked, following him out the door.

"We'll find out when we get there. Detective Lockley, who was the man who was shot?"

"We don't have an ID yet," he said, struggling to keep up.

"Okay. Reid, Blake, I want you at the hospital working up a geographic profile and interviewing the guy when he's conscious again. The rest of us are going to the crime scene, see what we can get from there." Hotch yanked open the driver-side door to an SUV. "Let's move."  
***  
Michael Hadley, the trauma surgeon at Palo Alto Memorial Hospital, stared down at his patient in dismay. While a cracked sternum and mangled hand were a nice counterpoint to the stabbings he usually handled, the scars littering he young man's torso were cause for concern. He highly doubted they had appeared of their own volition.

He put the scars to stew in the back of his mind and bent over the guy's chest again. He'd had to wipe away brain matter from the entry point - not the patient's own, which made the whole thing even worse somehow - and now he was ready to go in and find the bullet that had managed to pass through the left hand as well as someone else's skull before burying itself in the chest.

"BP dropping," Francine said suddenly.

He scowled under his mask. "Of course it is," he grumbled. "What's his blood type?"

"O-neg."

Of fucking _course_ he'd have the most finicky blood type. "Get a unit ready. If he loses much more, he'll need a transfusion."

He finally spotted the bullet, fragmented against the patient's splintered sternum. "Forceps?" he asked, holding out a hand. Maura passed them to him and he spun them around to reach into the chest cavity and pull out lead.

"Looks like four or five cracked ribs," he said. "He'll need an X-ray for that. Pretty sure I got all the metal out - let's sew 'im up and get him into recovery."

Francine reappeared with the requested unit of blood. "Um, the FBI's here for him. No family or friends yet."

Hadley's eyebrows raised. FBI? Investigating a gunshot wound? Things were getting interesting. "Any idea why?"

"The sniper. Apparently the asshole shot this kid's girlfriend and the bullet went right through her and into him."

He nodded. "That explains why he isn't dead. And the brain matter."

Monitors started beeping wildly. "He's seizing," Maura barked, pushing his head to the side.

He spun and grabbed the drawer behind him, where they kept the anticonvulsants, and scanned the labels until he found what he needed. _1000 mg fosphenytoin/CEREBYX._ He ripped open the packaging and hurriedly put the syringe into the IV lead, depressing the plunger as far as it would go.

The monitors returned to normal, though whether the seizure had run its course or the drug had brought it under control he couldn't say. He rethreaded the needle and started sewing, suddenly very glad he'd gotten the bullet out when he did; if the patient had started seizing while his hand was still inside his chest, there could have been serious damage. "Stats?"

"O2 at 94, BP 140 over sixty-five, pulse 98, temp 102," Francine read off. "Antipyretic?"

Maura already had the syringe in her hand. Hadley moved so she had better access to the IV line and continued sewing.

He tied off the thread and dropped the needle into the pan with the other used tools. "All right, let's get him into recovery. FBI's waiting for an update, you said?"

"Yeah. Two agents, man and woman."

"I'll go find them, then." He glanced down. "Don't suppose I could finagle you two into getting a gown on him?"

Francine cackled. "I'd be more interested in-"

"Don't say it," Maura interrupted. "Go on out, Mikey. We'll get him."

"It's _Michael_ ," he said as he backed out into the post-op room, where he stripped his gloves, mask, and apron with practiced efficiency.  
***  
"Unidentified gunshot victim?" a young man in the green scrubs of a surgeon called. Reid and Blake both stood and crossed the room to meet him. "I'm Michael Hadley, trauma surgeon."

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid, and this is Agent Blake. We're with the FBI."

"So I've heard. Does anyone know who the kid is yet?"

"Not yet," Blake said. "Though there's been some speculation."

Hadley eyed them like he wasn't sure if he should ask for clarification; he ultimately decided against it. "Well, your guy's got a cracked sternum and a hand that probably won't work right for the rest of his life. I removed the bullet, but it's going to take a while for him to heal. He's running a fever and he seized on-table, so we gave him an anticonvulsant and an antipyretic. The anesthesia should wear off in half an hour or so, then we'll get him moved to the ICU. To be honest, the gunshot was straightforward. I'm more interested in the scars he has."

"Scars?" Blake asked blankly.

"He's been tortured. Pretty extensively, from the looks of it, and by someone who knows how. The word 'freak' was carved into him deep enough to scar in eight different places that I saw." Reid winced. "If you have the time, you might want to look into that. Pretty sure someone that skilled has done this before and probably since."

"Since?" Blake asked sharply.

"The scars were two, maybe three years old." Hadley scratched his head. "That's pretty much all I can tell you, and I need to get back to work. Nice meeting you, agents."

"And you, Dr. Hadley," Blake said. The man turned and walked back through the doors, presumably to return to work.

"Tortured," Blake said, shaking her head. "That's different."

"What do you suppose 'freak' means to him?"

"Same thing it means to everyone else." Blake blew out a frustrated breath and returned to the topic at hand. "How does Hotch expect us to draw up a geographical profile with one point of attack?"

Reid shrugged. "We'll figure it out. He's comfortable on the Stanford campus, so he probably lives nearby."

"Or he's a student, or faculty, or staff. Too many people. You get anything from canvassing the neighborhood yesterday?"

"No. Although we did run into Sam Winchester." Reid shrugged. "I almost expect it to be him in there."

"Yeah, but come on, how likely is that?"

"Taking into account how often he's near a crime, the likelihood of someone being a victim more than-"

"That was a rhetorical question."

"Oh." He sat back down and spread the map over the table again. Twenty minutes after he started, his phone rang. "Hey, Morgan."

"Hey. Ballistics figured out what kind of gun - Remington, probably a 700 model. Garcia's looking into sales now. Get anything from the vic?"

"He's still out."

"Damn. Call when you have something."

"You, too."

Forty minutes later, a nurse knocked on the door. "Agent Blake and Dr. Reid?" she called, sounding bored. They stood and crossed the room again. "He's in the ICU now. You can sit with him if you want."

"Thanks, we'll do that," Blake said. "Where's the ICU?"

She hooked a thumb. "Down the hall to the left."

"Great, thanks."

"Yeah, sure." She walked away, tucking hair behind her ears. Blake half-expected to hear gum popping.

They found the ICU nurse, who was more than happy to take them to see the victim. The moment Reid set eyes on him, he groaned. "Told you it was him."

"That's Sam Winchester?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p' at the end.

"I thought he'd be bigger."

"I should call Hotch with this. I'll be right back."

Reid made his escape and Blake sat in a nearby chair, turning the case details over and over in her mind. Barely a minute later, Winchester whimpered; a few seconds later, he opened his eyes. "Jess?" he murmured.

"Sam Winchester?" Blake asked.

Sam turned his head. "Where's Jess?"

"Who's Jess?"

Naked fear sparked across his face. "Jessica Moore. My girlfriend. Is she okay? What happened?"

"Was she the blonde woman with you?"

Sam's eyes found the cast; his free hand touched his bandaged chest. "No," he breathed. "No, no, please, she can't be - tell me she isn't -"

"I'm sorry."

Sam leaned his head back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly and breathing as deeply as he could. A tear or two fell anyway, and he didn't wipe them off - maybe afraid to draw attention to them? "Why are you here?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"We were hoping you saw something."

"I didn't."

"You may have." She leaned forward. "We haven't really met before, but from what Morgan and Reid have told me, you're good at detective work." She heard him mutter something that might have been, "Better at getting people killed," and chose to ignore it. "Sam. Just tell me what you remember."

He started haltingly. "I - I was in tax law. Jess and I - we go shopping, every Wednesday. She was going to get hair dye." He shook his head. "I should have gotten it for her. Talked her into staying inside until it was done."

"Should haves don't help," she said gently. "You were in tax law?"

Sam shuddered a breath. "Yeah. We got out, and Jess was - she was waiting for me, outside. She asked if I was ready to go, and I admitted I'd forgotten my wallet" - _that explains the lack of ID_ , Blake thought - "and she laughed. Said something about dyeing her hair clown-red and then started laughing. She hugged me and - and she told me she was - she was _afraid_ , and I hugged her back, and then - God, and then I hurt and I passed out, and just - fuck." He shook his head, face screwed up against the grief. "Jess."

"How long were you dating?"

"Three years." Sam sniffled. "Met during orientation and just...hit it off."

"I'm so sorry." She didn't know what else to say.

Sam sighed. "Did the doc say anything about when I could go back to the apartment?"

"Um, no. Reid!"

"Blake." He looked over at the bed. "Sam."

"Reid." Sam tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "Do you have any idea who this guy is?"

"Not yet."

"There are too many people it could be," Blake explained. "I want to do what's called a cognitive interview."

"Fine."

"Really? Just like that?" Reid asked.

"Just like that," Sam said grimly. "Whatever catches this son of a bitch."

"Okay. Close your eyes," Blake ordered. Sam did as he was told. "Think about it. Remember. You'd just gotten out of tax law. Jess was waiting for you."

"Got it," Sam murmured.

"Look in the background. Can you see anything? Anyone that doesn't belong, maybe in a window?"

Sam's eyes shuttled behind closed eyelids. "It's the library and a dorm across from the building," he said slowly. "The library windows don't open. Dorm windows do, but you can only get in with a keycard."

"Focus on the dorm," Reid said. "What windows are open and what can you see?"

"First floor, two windows. There are guys in both on their computers. Second floor none. Third floor there's one I don't know and one in my friend Brady's room, but I can't see in either."

"What about the roof?" Blake asked.

Sam's eyes shuttled again. "Nothing I can see."

"Library - the windows don't open?"

"No. Wait, yes, but not much. The third floor has the - the crankshaft windows, from old cartoons, you know? The ones that swing in on arms?"

"We know the ones," Reid said. "Are any open?"

"Not that I can see."

"Is there anything on the roof?"

"Um...no. Heating and cooling system."

"That's okay, Sam. What about the people? Anything off about them?" The shot had to have come from above them, which meant second floor or above, but maybe he'd notice something in the background while he looked around him.

"No, it's just - just students, just - and _Jess._ " His voice cracked and he bit his lip so hard it started bleeding.

"It's okay," Reid said. "Don't hurt yourself."

Sam's tongue flicked out, cleaning the blood from his lip. "Sorry."

"Don't even worry about it. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"No." Sam opened his eyes and he looked at them miserably. "Nothing."

"That's okay." Blake patted his leg underneath the thin white sheet and stood. "Let us know if you remember anything."

"Okay," Sam said quietly.

"Take care, Sam," Reid said. When they were in the hallway, he looked at Blake and said, "Well, that rules him out as a suspect."

"Yeah, I guess so. Unless he has a partner?"

"LDSKs almost always work alone," Reid reminded her. "And Hotch said they just got a letter. He wants us working the linguistic angle."

"Then let's go."  
***  
Reid sighed, close to giving up. The linguistic profile he and Blake had worked up hadn't been much help - 'educated' was the most they could add to the existing LDSK profile. There was one phrase that had stuck out, though, so the two of them had split up and were asking around. At this time of day the campus was teeming with hyperactive twenty-somethings going to dinner or club meetings, and Reid had no shortage of people to ask. He was willing to bet Blake wasn't having much difficulty, either.

He pulled out his phone and sent her a text. _Anything?_

He got the reply less than a minute later: _Nothing yet. Tempted to ask Winchester._

He shook his head in bemusement. _If we don't have anything by 8, ask Garcia to find his number?_

He didn't get a reply, but by the time his self-imposed deadline rolled around he was so frustrated with the lack of progress he called Garcia anyway.

"Office of Supreme Genius, speak and be heard."

"Hey, Garcia, can you get a phone number for me?"

"Oh, anything for you, baby genius. Name?"

"Sam Winchester."

"Feeling nostalgic?"

Reid heard the clacking of keys in the background. "No. He's here."

"Why am I not surprised? Seems he's always popping up."

"Yeah."

"Got your number."

"Thanks, Garcia."

"Don't mention it. Call if you need anything."

"Will do." He ended the call and waited a few seconds until it buzzed again, Sam's phone number blinking up at him from the display.

Sam picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Sam? It's Dr. Reid."

"Oh. What's, um, what's up?"

"The shooter sent us a letter. There's a phrase that jumped out at us - can you tell me if it means anything to you?"

"I'll try."

"Okay, the sentence is, _All these women, heels over head for everyone else._ "

There were a few seconds of dead air before Sam said in a voice of total calm, "Read that again."

Not entirely surprised, Reid recited, "All these women, heels over head for everyone else."

"That motherfucker."

"You know who it is?" Reid asked.

"Brady," Sam spat.

 _Third floor there's one I don't know and one in my friend Brady's room, but I can't see in either._ They shouldn't have discounted that.

"What's his last name?" Reid prodded. 

"Nipher." The word oozed with hatred.

"You need to leave this to us, Sam," Reid reminded him.

"I've got a cracked sternum and a useless hand. What the fuck would I be able to do?"

Sam hung up before he could answer, and Reid sighed and dialed Hotch. "Got a lead," he said without preamble. "Brady Nipher."

"Good. How?"

"The phrase heels over head in his letter. Sam Winchester recognized it."

"Of course it was Winchester," Hotch muttered irritably. "It's always Winchester. Okay, I'll call a judge and get a warrant."

The judge was eager to sign the search warrant, probably because the publicity was making the entire city look incompetent, and in less than ten minutes Hotch called and said he was on his way with the warrant. Blake and Reid loitered outside Brady's dorm, browsing through the files Garcia had sent to their phones, until their team showed up with both Palo Alto and campus police.

The campus police were the ones who swiped them in and led them to room 305. When they knocked, a tall black man with the build of a wrestler opened the door. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for Brady Nipher," Rossi said. "And we have a warrant to search his belongings."

"Well, shit," he said. "Lemme see the warrant."

Hotch handed it over willingly; he unfolded the paper and scanned it before handing it back and retreating into the room to let them in.

Nipher was standing in front of a bed with a dark blue bedspread, arms crossed defensively. "What's this about?"

"We have a warrant to search your belongings in connection with the recent shootings," Hotch said.

Nipher's eye twitched. "I didn't do anything."

"Then searching won't be a problem," Rossi said gently. "Step aside, please, or we will arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Nipher's mouth opened and closed helplessly a few times before he moved to sit on the bed across the room. The roommate himself leaned against the wall, watching them pull on gloves.

"Which furniture is yours?" Reid asked him. He pointed wordlessly to the dresser and desk closest to the bed with the green comforter. "Thanks."

The dresser and desk were both clean, as was the closet. Nipher stayed silent as they searched, even when they moved the bed and unzipped the duffel bag they found under there to reveal a rifle.

The roommate sucked in a breath and stared at Nipher like he'd never seen him before. JJ peered at the gun and said, "Remington 700. Same type ballistics said we were looking for."

"Is this yours?" Hotch asked him levelly.

"I want my lawyer," Nipher said.

"You're under arrest," Morgan said, pulling handcuffs from his belt.

"You need a warrant for that," Nipher said, looking smug.

"No, we just need probable cause. We have that." Morgan pulled him to his feet roughly and spun him around to click the cuffs around his wrists. "Let's go. And you - what's your name?"

"Frank Gurnt."

"Frank, you're gonna need to give a statement. You can do that here or at the station."

"Here's fine."

Morgan nodded curtly and glanced at one of the uniforms, who pulled out a small notepad from the breast pocket of his uniform. Halfway to the police station, the rain hit, and by the time they reached their destination it had grown into a deluge.  
***  
There was a memorial service for all the victims on November third. Sam attended. The BAU came, as well; the storm meant the jet was grounded for the foreseeable future.

Nearly everyone on campus knew at least one of the victims, and so the service was held in the theater to accommodate them all. Sam found a seat in the very back corner, right next to the door and boxing in his bad arm, and rested his head against the wall. Someone had set up a projection system so it would show the names of the victims:  
 _Gina Harriet Flint, August 2 1982-November 1 2003  
Robin Susan Litkiss, April 3 1981 - October 28 2003  
Jessica Lee Moore, May 2 1983 - November 2 2003  
Lily Anne White, January 17 1981 - October 31 2003  
Lorraine Deanna Zilkide, December 14 1981 - October 29 2003  
Sam Winchester, injured_

Sam winced at the sight of his own name; it shouldn't be up there. He would be fine, but _Jess_ -

No. He refused to cry before anyone started actually _talking._

Four people, all men, filed onto the stage. Sam knew one of them - the Dean of Students, Harry Gunder - but the other three were mysteries to him.

"Students," the dean said, instantly grabbing their attention. "Recent events have taken five students too soon. Five bright, happy young people with great potential. These young women were stolen from us years before their time. We are all mourning their loss, not just of who they were, but of who they could have been. Please join us in a moment of quiet prayer."

Sam bowed his head with the rest of the audience, but he didn't pray. He couldn't pray to a god that would let something like this happen - who would let his best friend kill his girlfriend.

He was _such_ a freak. The hunters who had grabbed him when he was seventeen were right - there was nothing normal about him. He'd let his best friend murder his girlfriend because he hadn't been vigilant, and he _should_ have been. There was no excuse for him, none, he could make things fly around the room but he couldn't stop one measly bullet, what good _was_ he?

"And now, I'd like to pass the microphone over to those who knew the departed best," Gunder said, dragging him from his self-flagellation. "Hilary Kim, Gina Flint's best friend."

A young, slightly overweight Korean woman took Gunder's place behind the microphone as he sat down in a chair next to the three men Sam didn't know. "Gina Flint has been my best friend since kindergarten," she said. "We met when the other kids in my class were calling me Slant-Eyes and she started throwing paper balls at them." A ripple of laughter. "That was just the kind of person she was - we didn't even know each other very well, we sat on opposite sides of the room, but she wouldn't let them call me names.

"In sixth grade, when my parents divorced, her family would always let me come over just to get away from the tension. In ninth grade, we both joined drama, and key club, and band. When we got our licenses, we'd just go into town on the weekends and chill out. We talked about everything. She was - she was the greatest person I've ever known-" Hilary's voice broke and she bit her lip, raising her head to look at the ceiling. Even from his spot at the back of the room, Sam could see her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

"Anyway," she continued unsteadily after a few moments, "Gina was the kindest person I ever knew. I remember one time, we were walking downtown and a kid was crying. We didn't see any adults around looking for him, so she sat down next to him and started talking. Turned out the kid was lost, and she found a phone to call the police to let them know. The whole time, she was talking to him, and playing pat-a-cake, and just basically being great with him. She was great with kids, in general, but she kept him calm until the police got there, and his parents came with them - they'd been looking for him for almost an hour. That, more than anything, made her want to go into psychology - she wanted to help people, and psych was the best way she could think of.

"Even here, Gina would put off studying if I needed to talk to her about something. Even if I just needed to bitch about how nothing in my closet fit anymore, she'd stop studying her psych and hang out. We'd watch old movies and laugh and eat popcorn. She was the best person I've ever known, and - and I don't know what's - how I'm going to - now that she's gone." She sucked in a breath and choked out, "Thanks," before quickly leaving the stage.

She was replaced by a tall, rail-thin man in his mid-twenties. "I'm Joseph Litkiss, Robin's brother," he said. "As a little girl, Robin would always ask _why._ Why is the sky blue? Why are you so tall? Why do I have to go to school?" He forced a painful-looking half-smile. 

"And now that's all I can ask. Why did this happen? Robin was a sweet girl. I wanted to shove her face-first into a toilet sometimes, but hey, she was my baby sister. She was _supposed_ to do that." Another ripple of laughter, even unsteadier than the first. "She was in Girl Scouts, right, and every October her troop would do a coat drive. Used to drive me nuts because by the end of the first week our house was overflowing with the damn things. 

"It was just me and her, after our parents died a few years ago. I'd just graduated from here, and she was finishing out her junior year of high school, so - it's impressive, it really is, that she managed to keep up with her senior year of high school and her work schedule and _still_ get in here. I was so proud of her. _So_ proud, and then she told me she was going to major in engineering so fewer people would be killed by car accidents, and I thought I was going to cry. And I know Mom and Dad, up in Heaven, were just as proud. I never - I never thought I be giving another eulogy so soon after the first-" He rubbed his eyes. "But she's with them now, up in Heaven. I know she's missed them, and I'm sure they've missed her. I keep trying to tell myself she's at peace. The gift of grief is that it presents us the opportunity to learn and grow."

Someone several rows in front of him was sniffling. Sam wiped his own eyes with his thumb, suddenly wishing he'd known them better.

"She was - I buried her yesterday, but right now, I'd like to recite a poem. This was one of her favorites, after Mom and Dad died, and she - she told me, once, that it got her through the first few weeks.  
 _When I die  
If you need to weep  
Cry for someone    
Walking the street beside you.  
You can love me most by letting  
Hands touch hands, and   
Souls touch souls.  
You can love me most by  
Sharing your Simchas and  
Multiplying your Mitzvot.  
You can love me most by  
Letting me live in your eyes  
And not on your mind.  
And when you say Kaddish for me  
Remember what our  
Torah teaches,  
Love doesn’t die   
People do.  
So when all that’s left of me is love  
Give me away._

"She wasn't religious, but it fit. Be kind to each other, just as she was kind to everyone." His voice cracked. "I miss her, I miss her so much. But she's with our parents now, and I have to remember that.

Thank you."

He turned and walked up the stage. Sam covered his face with his right hand, left still tucked securely to his chest to dissuade him from using it. He was already crying.

"H- Hello? My name is Becky Warren. I was Jess's - Jessica Moore's - roommate her first two years here." Sam looked up at Becky, now a brunette. "I knew her better than probably anyone else here but her boyfriend, Sam, who was hurt when she was killed. I remember the first day we moved in, and she asked if I needed help unpacking, and then we went to the first-night orientation party and stayed off to the side while the band played and a couple boys came up to talk to us, and we both ended up dating them. I broke up with mine a little later, but she's been with Sam ever since." That had been Brady, Sam remembered with a surge of anger. He'd liked to take credit for introducing the two of them. He and Becky had dated for all of two weeks.

"And Jess was great. Really. She was double-majoring in biology and chemistry. She took classes that made me want to cry just looking at the titles - I mean, physical chemistry three, who in their right mind would-" Her voice cracked. "But she was - she was great. Kind, and sweet, and smart, and generous. She'd do anything to make me smile. She bailed on a couple date nights to come keep me company, just eating ice cream and pizza and pigging out when I was dumped or stressed or just plain _sad,_ even after she moved in with him. I loved her, so much. She was my best friend. We took a lot of our gen eds together, just to laugh at things and study.

"And she was so in love. I mean, you'd ask her about Sam and she'd just get so _sappy_. I used to make fun of her for it. And last month, Sam and I, we-" She choked, and so did Sam, because he knew what she was about to say. "He was going to propose the day she died," she said. "November second. He had the ring and everything, and it was all planned out, and everyone knew she would have said yes." Sam started crying harder, shoulders shaking, because Becky had told him she would but he hadn't really believed her. "And they would have been so _happy_ together.

"I say this because - because I never knew Jess when she wasn't with him, except for the two or three hours when we first met, and so - I mean, I can't talk about her without talking about him. A lot of who she was was wrapped up in how much she loved him. She loved everyone she met." Sam started actually sobbing now, because he knew exactly what she meant, hadn't that been what had drawn him to her in the first place?

"But she had - she had a spine of steel, too, you know? She got into an argument with a professor one day because he'd marked her down for how she cited something, and she found the goddamn style manual and took it into his office and argued it."

Sam managed a laugh, because he remembered that. He remembered Jess, all five-foot-eleven of her seething with anger - _That goddamn moron doesn't know what he's talking about_ \- and her hair that had made her a target pulled back into a ponytail as a safeguard against the wind because _Do you know how hard it is to get hair like this untangled, Sam, because it isn't fun and it's sure as hell not something I want to do on the fly when I'm arguing my case_.

"She was a spitfire, that's for sure. She wouldn't let anyone say a bad word about her or her friends, and she was - she was _Jess._ I can't wrap her up into a short little speech because I can't _describe_ her in a short little speech. She was happy and flirty and fun and she was determined and resourceful and serious and she liked to party and she liked to stay home and watch bad TV and old movies or read a book and she liked tea and coffee but hated orange juice and she loved to root for Gargamel when she watched the Smurfs.

"We're all going to miss her." Becky was crying now; Sam could make that out through the film of tears over his own eyes. "There's never going to be anyone quite like Jessica Lee Moore."

**Author's Note:**

> I want you all to know that I literally started crying three times while I was writing the final scene. And then again when I was trying to proofread and edit. So if there are any mistakes I missed, please let me know.
> 
> As to why JJ was the one to know the rifle - I figure she spent time around guns in her year with the state department, and the Remington 700 is used in the military.
> 
> Linguistic profiling (heels over head) is actually how they caught Ted Kaczynski/the Unabomber - he used the phrase "You can't eat your cake and have it, too," in his manifesto. When it was published, his brother noticed it and called up the FBI. It was enough for a search warrant, and what they found in his cabin gave them enough proof for an arrest.
> 
> The poem recited by Joseph is ["When All That's Left is Love"](http://www.shiva.com/learning-center/resources/poems-of-comfort/#remem), by Rabbi Allen Maller.
> 
> As always, please review.


End file.
